


Bahorel's Day Off

by steelplatedhearts



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Ferris Bueller's Day Off AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:26:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelplatedhearts/pseuds/steelplatedhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bahorel wakes up on Wednesday morning, the sun is shining brighter than it has for months, and he can hear birds chirping away like something out of a Disney movie.</p><p>Then his mom calls up, “Bahorel, get ready for school!” and he thinks: Well, fuck that.</p><p>It’s a beautiful day, and life is too short to spend it in school learning about economics and dead people.</p><p>[Ferris Bueller's Day Off AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bahorel's Day Off

**Author's Note:**

> This has a lovely graphic to go with it [here](http://ejolras.tumblr.com/post/43817885307/les-mis-ferris-bueller-idea-by-madi-bahorel-as)!

When Bahorel wakes up on Wednesday morning, the sun is shining brighter than it has for months, and he can hear birds chirping away like something out of a Disney movie.

Then his mom calls up, “Bahorel, get ready for school!” and he thinks: _Well, fuck that._

It doesn’t take much—letting out a few over-exaggerated groans, sticking his head up near a lamp to heat it up, and licking his hands to fake clamminess, and his parents are standing over him with concern, telling him to stay home from school.

“Oh, you poor thing,” his mom says, clicking her tongue as she holds the back of her hand to his forehead. “No, you’re definitely not going to school today.”

Bahorel pretends to struggle to get up, and then falls back on his bed with a thump. “But I have to go to school,” he says, earnestly. “I need to get a good education so I can have a good life. Education is everything.”

It’s completely over the top and ridiculous, and he can tell from the snort in the doorway that Eponine thinks so too. But his mom falls for it, like she always does.

“You can always make up your assignments later,” she says. “We’ll call the school, let them know you’re sick—”

“No, I have a test today,” Bahorel says, flopping around like he’s trying to rise but can’t. “It’s important, I have to look out for my future—”

“With an attitude like that, your future’s pretty safe,” his dad says. “You’re staying home, and that’s final.”

“You get some rest, honey,” his mom says, kissing his forehead.

“Mmkay,” Bahorel says, burrowing under his covers. Eponine makes a small sound of indignation.

“You’re just _letting him stay home_?” she asks incredulously. “He’s not even _sick_ , are you kidding me—”

“That’s enough, Eponine,” their dad says.

“I could be puking up blood and you’d make me go to school,” Eponine says. “You hate me, don’t you?”

“If we hated you, we wouldn’t have gotten you a car,” their mom says as she leaves the room. Eponine follows, shooting Bahorel a glare.

The door swings shut behind her, and Bahorel stays where he is, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, until he hears all three cars leave the garage.

 _Finally_.

It’s a beautiful day, and life is too short to spend it in school learning about economics and dead people.

*   *   *   *   *  

First things first: he needs transport.

He calls Joly, because not only has Joly been his best friend since the second grade, but there’s also an 85% chance that Joly’s not at school either.

“Joly!” he says cheerfully, spinning around in his dad’s office chair. “What’s going on?”

“I’m dying,” Joly croaks. “You remember the terms of my will?”

“Delete your internet history, don’t let your mom plan your funeral, and don’t let Enjolras start a rebellion over your death,” Bahorel recites. “Although why you think he’d start a rebellion over you, I have no idea—”

“I don’t know either,” Joly says, sniffling. “But you know him. He could start a revolution over a dead squirrel, probably.”

“Bet you anything I can make that happen,” Bahorel says, mind racing. “We just need to find a dead squirrel.”

“ _No_ ,” Joly says. “I don’t bet with you anymore, not after the roller-skating incident.”

“Yeah, but you had fun, didn’t you?” Bahorel asks, grinning.

He can _hear_ Joly rolling his eyes. “That’s entirely beside the point. Did you want something, or can I die in peace?”

“I need a ride,” Bahorel says. “Come over.”          

“… _No_ ,” Joly says. “I don’t think you understand what’s happening here.”

Bahorel kicks off from the desk, spinning around again. “So explain it to me.”

“I am going to _die_ ,” Joly says, voice hoarse. Bahorel snorts.

“Yeah, and you were going to die last week,” he says, resting his feet on the desk. “What was it, tuberculosis? And the week before that you thought your kidneys were failing.”

“Well, I’m actually dying this time,” Joly says. “I’m like 90% sure that it’s a respiratory infection.”

“Then if you’re dying, there’s no harm in coming to get me,” Bahorel says. “You’re dead no matter what—might as well have fun with it.”

Joly calls him an idiot and hangs up, which is Joly-speak for “Give me half an hour to try and talk myself out of this, and then I’ll be there.”

*   *   *   *   *  

“Ma’am, are you aware that Bahorel has been absent from school _nine times_ this semester alone?”

“Well, that doesn’t sound right,” the woman on the other end of the line says. “I don’t remember him being sick nine times.”

“That’s because he wasn’t sick, ma’am,” Javert says. “He was skipping school.”

Bahorel’s mother actually _laughs_ at that. “Oh, he wouldn’t do that. He’s a good kid, and I can assure you he’s legitimately sick right now. I applaud your dedication to my son’s education, but there’s no cause for concern.”

She hangs up, and Javert rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs.

“I don’t trust this kid any farther than I can throw him,” he says to the emptiness of his office.

“You couldn’t throw him anywhere if you tried,” his secretary says.

“Yes, _thank you_ , Mrs. Thenardier,” Javert says, rolling his eyes. “He’s dangerous. He gives good students bad ideas.”

“Uh-huh,” Mrs. Thenardier says, bored.

“If we don’t get this sorted out now—”

“ _We?_ ”

“—If I don’t get this sorted out now, I’m going to have an entire school of Bahorels,” Javert says. “He undermines my ability to run this school properly.”

“He makes you look like an asshole, is what he does,” Mrs. Thenardier says, pulling out a nail file. Javert looks at her incredulously, and she raises an eyebrow at him. “Everyone loves him, and nobody even likes you. _I_ don’t even like you.”

“I’m ignoring that,” Javert says. “Look, we just need to catch him in the act, and show the students that his example gets you nowhere.”

“I say again,” Mrs. Thenardier says, bored. “ _We?_ ”

Javert sighs. “Fine. _I_ need to catch him in the act.”

Mrs. Thenardier snorts, going back to her typing. “Well, good luck with that.”

*   *   *   *   *  

“Joly, what are you doing?” Bahorel asks.

“Taking my blood pressure, and _not coming to get you_ ,” Joly says, irritated.

Bahorel sighs, loudly and obnoxiously. “You’re not being very polite, making me wait around like this.”

“I’m not making you wait for anything,” Joly says. “I told you, I’m not coming. Do you have any idea what my blood pressure is right now?”

“You can always lower your blood pressure by relaxing,” Bahorel says. “And what’s more relaxing than hanging out with me and Cosette?”

“Lion taming. Swimming with sharks. Taking a test I haven’t studied for.”

“Come on, we’re not as bad as that,” Bahorel protests.

“On your own, you’re both great. Together, you keep feeding off each other’s ridiculous need to do something outrageous and the next thing you know, everything’s on fire and we need to make a trip to the ER,” Joly says.

Bahorel groans, tipping his head back. “That was _one time_ , Joly.”

“But it was a memorable one time,” Joly says. “Forget it, I’m not coming.”

“Who’s going to give me a ride if not you?” Bahorel says, pouting.

“Courfeyrac. Musichetta. Hell, you could probably get Marius to drive you around if Cosette asks him.”

“We’re not asking Marius,” Bahorel growls. “Cosette thinks he’s creepy. Look, it has to be you, dude. Okay?”

“Fine,” Joly sighs. “But only because I know you’re going to keep calling me.”

*   *   *   *   *  

English is boring, as it is every day. Cosette and Musichetta sit in the back, painting each other’s nails and hiding from the gaze of their teacher.

“Pontmercy’s staring at you again,” Musichetta says, grinning. “That boy just can’t take a hint.”

Cosette groans. “I know he’s Bahorel’s friend, but he’s so _weird._ ” She looks over her shoulder and smiles brightly at Marius, who falls out of his chair. “But then he does things like that, so it evens out.”

Musichetta snorts. “You’re so mean to him.”

“I’m not mean,” Cosette protests, brushing a layer of topcoat on Musichetta’s thumbnail. “I’m just not above manipulating a creepy stalker for my own amusement.”

Her phone vibrates, and Cosette fishes it out of her pocket, leaning behind Musichetta to check it.

The text, of course, is from Bahorel:

_PLAN SICK DAY IS A GO; OPERATION DEAD GRANDMOTHER HAS BEEN LAUNCHED._

Cosette rolls her eyes with a smile, packing up her things.

“Let me guess,” Musichetta says, raising an eyebrow. “Bahorel’s taking a ‘sick day’ again?”

“Yup,” Cosette says gleefully, settling back in her chair and trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

Right on cue, Nurse Simplice bursts through the door and talks to the teacher in a low voice. “Cosette Valjean?” she says, looking around.

Cosette widens her eyes, trying her best to act as though this visit is a surprise.

“May I speak to you for a moment, dear?”

Cosette grabs her things and follows the nurse out into the hallway. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this,” the nurse says gravely, eyes full of concern, “but your grandmother has just passed away.”

Cosette does not have a grandmother. Cosette has never had a grandmother, as all of her dad’s relatives died before she was born.

But she bursts into hysterical sobs anyway; falling into the nurse’s arms like the world has ended.

For her part, the nurse seems happy to have someone to comfort, clutching Cosette to her chest and murmuring something about “poor lamb.”

It’s almost too easy.

*   *   *   *   *  

“Her grandmother’s _dead_?” Javert repeats incredulously.

“It’s what I just said, isn’t it?” Mrs. Thenardier says. “I had Nurse Simplice pull her out of class.”

Javert sits back, considering. “Who’s this girl going out with?”

Mrs. Thenardier wrinkles her nose in disgust. “And the award for the creepiest person goes to—”

“Just tell me,” Javert snaps, cutting her off.

“She hangs around with Bahorel a lot,” Mrs. Thenardier says with a shrug. “But I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Weren’t we discussing his absences half an hour ago?”

“Okay, I see why it’s relevant,” Mrs. Thenardier admits, “but I just don’t care.”

“Get me Mr. Valjean’s number,” Javert says.

Mrs. Thenardier goes to her desk to look it up. “Try not to yell at him again.”

“That was not my fault,” Javert calls after her. “He’s a hooligan!”

“He’s a grown man.”

“Once a hooligan, always a hooligan,” Javert growls as the phone rings.

“Principal Javert’s office,” she says. “Uh-huh. Please hold.” She clicks a button, and hangs up. “Valjean on line 1!”

Javert snatches up the phone. “Principal Javert.”

“Mr. Javert,” a voice says. “This is Jean Valjean.”

It is not Jean Valjean—Javert is about 90% sure of this. He knows Jean Valjean, they went to school together, he’s gotten into fights with him on more than one parent-teacher night—the man on the phone is not him.

(There is a 10% chance that Valjean’s voice just sounds different due to a cold, but this is unlikely.)

“We’ve had some unfortunate news today, as you might have heard,” ‘Valjean’ says.

“My condolences,” Javert says dryly.

“It’s been a rough morning for everyone,” ‘Valjean’ continues. “I was hoping you could excuse Cosette for the rest of the day.”

There’s no doubt in Javert’s mind now—there is no dead grandmother, and it’s Bahorel on the phone.

“Of course I’ll excuse Cosette,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Just bring the corpse down here, and we’ll sign her out. It’s school policy, you know.”

There’s a stunned silence on the other end of the line, and Mrs. Thenardier looks like she can’t decide whether she wants to shout at him or hit him. “Excuse me?” ‘Valjean’ says.

“Are you out of your mind?” Mrs. Thenardier hisses.

He waves her off, covering the end of the phone. “Relax, it’s just Bahorel. I’m setting a trap for him.”

“Did you say you wanted to see a _body_?” ‘Valjean’ repeats, flabbergasted.

“Yes sir,” Javert says. “Just stuff her in the trunk and bring her down.”

The phone rings again, and Mrs. Thenardier goes to answer it. “Principal Javert’s office.”

“Hey, Mrs. Thenardier, it’s Bahorel. Can I speak to Mr. Javert, please?”

Mrs. Thenardier starts cackling. “Of course you can,” she wheezes, still laughing. “One moment.”

She puts him on hold and composes herself, heading back into Javert’s office. He’s in the middle of saying something completely terrible, so she sits back and lets him finish.

“—You don’t like my policies, dipshit?” he’s saying, a very smug grin firmly in place. “Then you can just kiss my ass.” He looks at her with a proud smirk, and she feels like this is the perfect time to interject.

“Bahorel’s on line two,” she says serenely, and the panic on his face is the most gratifying thing she’s seen all week.

“Please hold,” Javert croaks, and reaches out to switch to line two. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Mr. Javert!” Bahorel says cheerfully. “I’m home sick—I was just wondering if it was possible to have my sister pick up my assignments. I don’t want to fall behind, you know.”

“Of course,” Javert says hollowly.

“Great, thanks!” Bahorel says as he hangs up.

The light signaling Valjean’s line flashes ominously as Javert takes a deep breath and switches lines. “Mr. Valjean? I think I owe you an apology.”

*   *   *   *   *  

“I should say you do!” Joly shouts into the phone, really getting into character. “What kind of person insults people when their family members have just died?”

“I am so, so sorry sir,” Javert says, practically tripping over his tongue, and Joly relaxes a little in spite of himself. “I thought you were someone else—I never would have deliberately insulted you—”

“Pardon my language,” Joly says, confidence growing, “but you’re an asshole!”

“Yes sir, yes I am,” Javert says, which gives Joly no small amount of pleasure to hear. Bahorel struts into the room, fully suited up, and twirls around a bit, pointing finger guns at things and pretending to be James Bond.

“How’s it going?” he asks, shooting the plant.

“Fine,” Joly says, covering the mouthpiece. “But what if he figures out I’m not Cosette’s dad? Doesn’t he _know_ Cosette’s dad?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bahorel says, whirling around and making gun noises, pretending to fire at the desk. “You’re doing great.”

“Okay,” Joly says, taking a quick breath before slipping back into his Mr. Valjean voice. “Javert?”

There’s no answer, just a bunch of banging and crashing as Javert and Mrs. Thenardier are presumably running around the office.

“Javert?” he barks again.

“Yes sir?” Javert answers, slightly out of breath.

“I want Cosette out in front of the school by herself in ten minutes.”

“No!” Bahorel yells, and then claps his hands over his mouth.

“Why not?” Joly hisses, covering up the mouthpiece again.

“It’s too suspicious,” Bahorel whispers. “Cover it!”

“Never mind!” Joly says into the phone. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, I want you out there too—”

“That’s worse!” Bahorel yells, smacking Joly in a panic.

“You know what?” Joly shouts in desperation. “We don’t have time to talk now, we’ll do lunch!”

Bahorel snatches the phone and hangs up, and the boys stare at each other in a panic.

“Well, we’re fucked,” Bahorel says finally, running his fingers through his hair. “Why’d you have to tell him to be outside?”

“I said for her to be alone and you flipped out,” Joly says defensively. “If you want my help, don’t panic when I don’t do things exactly the way you want.” He folds his arms, raising an eyebrow at Bahorel. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be Mr. Impromptu-Plans Guy? If you wanted to not have to adapt a plan on the fly, you should have gone to Combeferre.”

“Okay, I was a dick, I’m sorry,” Bahorel says, rubbing his hands over his face. “And speaking of adapting plans, we’re going to have to fix this one. I have an idea, but you’re not going to like it.”

*   *   *   *   *  

“No,” Joly says. “Absolutely not.”

“Yes,” Bahorel says, eyes gleaming.

“ _No._ ”

“ _Yes._ ”

“You don’t understand,” Joly says, exasperated. “My dad loves this Ferrari more than he loves anything else, up to and including _himself_. He’s got the mileage tracked, he polishes it every night—you can’t fucking take it, okay?”

“We’ve got to look fancy enough to be Cosette’s dad,” Bahorel says, hopping in the front seat. “Your car’s crap, no offence.”

“None taken, I think,” Joly says. “Now get out of the car.”

“You’ve got two options here,” Bahorel says, starting the car. “You can come with me and look out for the car, or you can stay here and trust that Cosette and I will bring it back safely.”

Joly gets in the car.

*   *   *   *   *  

Cosette’s learned over the years that being a girl has several distinct advantages when it comes to dealing with male teachers.

For example, if you clutch at your stomach and start complaining about cramps, you can go wherever you want, no questions asked. Or if you start crying, you don’t have to talk, answer questions, turn in homework, or anything.

That’s the strategy she’s employing now.

It doesn’t take much for her to cry on command—thinking about Lilo and Stitch usually does it, that move always made her bawl as a kid—and it has the added benefit of making Mr. Javert look like he’s about to cry as well.

He’s trying really hard, bless him—mumbling things about _everything happens for a reason_ and _better grief than emptiness_ , which would be so hilariously inadequate if Cosette actually had a dead grandmother that she wants to laugh.

A flashy red sports car pulls up and honks once, and Cosette raises her eyebrows, impressed.

“Well, that’s my dad,” she says, voice trembling as she fakes stoically holding back tears. “Thank you for your kindness. You’re a beautiful soul, Mr. Javert.”

She practically races to the car, and can’t help but whoop as Bahorel drives away.

“I can’t believe you got the Ferrari,” she says, running her hands over the leather in admiration. “How did you get Joly to agree to this?”

“I _didn’t_ agree to this,” Joly says grumpily from the floor of the backseat. “He just sort of took it.”

“Hi Joly!” Cosette chirps, reaching back and ruffling Joly’s hair. “How’re things?”

“Not great,” Joly says, climbing up into the seats. “I’m dying. Do you have a mirror?”

“Here,” Cosette says, handing over her compact. “What are you dying of?”

“I think it might be bronchitis,” Joly says gloomily, examining his tongue.

“I don’t think you can die from bronchitis, Joly,” she laughs, taking the compact back and slipping it in her purse. “Isn’t it pretty mild?”

“You can die from _anything, Cosette,_ ” Joly says, pulling a thermometer out of his pocket.

“So what’s the plan, then?” Cosette asks, turning back to Bahorel.

“Plans are so _restrictive_ ,” Bahorel says. “I thought we’d wing it.”

“Can we wing taking the car back?” Joly asks, thermometer in his mouth.

“Of course not!”

“That’s what I figured.”

*   *   *   *   *  

Eponine is still mad about Bahorel blowing off school when Courfeyrac shoves a Pepsi can in her face and says, “Save Bahorel?”

“Do I even want to know?” she asks, unimpressed.

He smirks. “We’re raising money to buy your brother a new kidney.”

“A new—are you out of your mind?” she snarls. “You know full well he doesn’t need a _kidney_. He’s not even sick!”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Well, yeah, but this is fun.”

“Fun,” Eponine deadpans. “How fun will it be when the student body realizes they’re giving their money to nothing?”

“It’s not going to nothing,” Courfeyrac protests. “We’re probably going to buy a crapton of ice cream bars for the school or something like that.”

“You’re demented,” Eponine says, raising an eyebrow.

“So you’re not going to help save Bahorel?” Courfeyrac says, giving her his best puppy-dog look.

“Not even if he was _actually dying_ ,” Eponine says as she walks away.

“You’re a heartless wench, Eponine!” Courfeyrac calls after her.

She smirks and flips him off without turning around. “Drama queen.”

*   *   *   *   *  

“Get me the Valjean residence,” Javert says, brooding. “Something’s not right.”

“Will do,” Mrs. Thenardier says, punching in the number. “You know how I like to watch you humiliate yourself.”

The number goes straight to voicemail, and leaves a forwarding number. That number leads to the local mortuary.

“There,” Mrs. Thenardier says, eyebrow raised. “You happy?”

“No,” Javert snaps. “Get me Mr. Valjean’s cell phone.”

“Oh, this ought to be good,” Mrs. Thenardier says with a smirk. “Line one.”

“Hello?”

The man on the phone this time is definitely Valjean, no doubt about it. “Mr. Valjean,” Javert says. “I just wanted to apologize again for what happened this morning.”

There’s a very long silence from the other end, and Javert smiles triumphantly. He’s got them now.

“Of course,” Valjean says eventually. “No harm done, I suppose. Thank you for calling.”

“That’s it?” Javert presses. “No harm done, even after what I did?”

“…Which was terrible,” Valjean says warily. “But I’m the forgiving type, you know.”

Javert nearly growls in frustration. “How’s your mother?”

“Dead,” Valjean says, confused. “Look, thank you for your apology, but I have to get going.”

He hangs up, and Mrs. Thenardier turns to him with a grin. “No luck?”

“They’re up to something,” Javert says. “I just know it."

*   *   *   *   *  

“Oh, _shit!_ ” Cosette breathes, staring at her phone. “My dad’s calling.”

“Just ignore it,” Joly says, hanging on the back of her seat. “I mean, you’re supposed to be in class right now, right?”

“Right,” Cosette says, putting her phone back in her lap. “No big deal.”

But it keeps buzzing, and she picks it back up. “He’s resorted to texting, and apparently I have to call him right now.”

Bahorel pulls over and kills the engine as Cosette dials. “Hey, daddy.”

“The dead grandmother trick?” he says dryly. “I expect better from you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cosette says as innocently as she can manage.

“The ‘playing innocent’ thing stopped working on me when you were ten,” her father says. “And besides, your principal called.”

Cosette grimaces. “What did he say?”

“I think he was trying to trick me into disproving your story—whatever that story was,” her dad says. “You’re lucky I don’t like him, or I wouldn’t have gone along with it.”

“Are you gonna turn us in?” Cosette asks, dreading the answer.

“No,” her dad says. “But we _are_ going to have a talk when you get home. Say hi to Bahorel and Joly for me.”

“How fucked are we?” Bahorel asks the second she hangs up.

“Well, I’m probably going to be in a lot of trouble later,” she says with a sigh, “but we’re safe for right now. My dad says hi, by the way.”

Bahorel starts the car and pulls back out onto the road. “Brilliant. Let’s find a parking garage.”

“What? No,” Joly says, sitting up straight. “We can’t put the car in a garage, Bahorel, it could get fucked up!”

“Well, where else do you want to park it?” Bahorel asks. “On the street?”

“Fine,” Joly says, flopping over dramatically. “But find a _good_ garage, okay? Somewhere it’ll be safe.”

“Tell you what,” Bahorel says, changing lanes. “How about we leave the final decision on the garage up to you?”

Joly vetoes four different garages before reluctantly settling on a small, unassuming garage away from the busier roads.

“I’m still not happy about this,” he says as Bahorel hands the keys to the attendant.

Bahorel sighs and turns to the attendant. “Look, Mr. Claquesous,” he says, reading the name off the man’s nametag. “My friend’s very protective over this car. Do you think you could take extra care of it?” He slips the man ten dollars as he talks.

“You don’t have a thing to worry about, sir,” the man says, smiling reassuringly at Joly as he takes the money. “We’re professionals.”

“See?” Bahorel says, hauling Joly out of the car. “The car’s going to be fine, they’re professionals!”

“Great,” Joly grumbles. “I feel so much better now.”

*   *   *   *   *  

“The city looks so small from up here,” Cosette says, standing on her tiptoes and throwing her arms out, leaning so far over the railing that Joly thinks she might fall.

Although if she did fall, she probably wouldn’t fall to the ground—instead, she’d fall towards the clouds, up into the sky.

“Be careful,” he says, and Cosette laughs, rocking back on her heels and hugging Joly.

“Don’t worry,” she says, resting her head on his shoulder and wrapping her arms around his waist. “I’m not going to die on the Eiffel Tower. For one, there’s too many tourists around, and it’s embarrassing.”

“You think if I throw a euro off the side, it could kill someone?” Bahorel asks, halfway over the railing with only one foot still touching the ground.

“Nah, they disproved that on Mythbusters,” Joly says, leaning his head on Cosette. “You’d have to throw a rock or something to really make an impact. A euro wouldn’t even make a fracture, probably.”

“Well, it would still hurt,” Cosette says. “Wanna throw one?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Bahorel smirks, fishing a coin out of his pocket. They all crowd around the railing as Bahorel winds up and throws the coin as far out as he can.

Joly loses track of it right away, but Bahorel and Cosette stare intently out into the sky, following the coin’s progress. Soon, Cosette blinks and steps back. “I lost it.”

“I hope nobody gets hurt,” Joly murmurs.

“Nah, it’ll be fine,” Bahorel says, still watching the air like a hawk. “It looks like it’s going for a park.”

“How can you see that?” Cosette says, squinting. “It’s so far down.”

“He can’t,” Joly says, raising an eyebrow. “He’s bullshitting.” Bahorel starts to grin, and Joly rolls his eyes. “See that face? That’s his bullshit face.”

“Jackass,” Cosette says with a smile, punching Bahorel in the arm. “You think you’re so great, don’t you?”

“I’m pretty great, yeah,” Bahorel says, pretending to think about it. “Come on, let’s get down. Lots of stuff to do today.”

*   *   *   *   *  

They’re wandering through the streets in Porte de Vanves, looking at all the trinkets, when Bahorel grabs a thin silver ring with a metal bow on top, turns to Cosette, and says, “Do you want to get married?”

Joly starts choking on nothing, and Cosette laughs at him. “Oh yeah, _definitely_ ,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“I’m serious,” he says. “Let’s get married. Right now.”

“Don’t be a dumbass,” Cosette says, bumping him with her hip as she sorts through the necklaces on the table. “There are so many reasons that’s a bad idea.”

“Okay, what are they?” Bahorel asks.

Joly groans. “I’d like to be surprised that you’re having this conversation, I really would.”

Cosette ignores him. “Number one, my dad will most definitely murder you. Two, I’m not going to be the only girl in school with a husband. Three, Marius will cry.”

“I thought you were all about making Marius cry,” Joly says, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah,” Cosette admits. “But it would cut off any future messing-with-Marius opportunities.”

“You can still mess with him if we’re married,” Bahorel says. “I wouldn’t care.”

“But Marius would, and that takes all the fun out of it,” Cosette says. “We’re not getting married.”

Bahorel buys the ring anyway, slips it on Cosette’s index finger as they walk away, and she smirks and kisses his cheek.

“If I’d known this was going to be a date night, I would have stayed at home,” Joly says.

“Right you are, my friend,” Bahorel says, slinging one arm around Joly’s shoulders and the other around Cosette’s. “This day is supposed to be about fun, so let’s have fun! And possibly food—who’s hungry?”

*   *   *   *   *  

“This is a very bad idea.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bahorel says, clapping Joly on the back. “This is the greatest idea ever.”

“ _Le Meurice_?” Joly hisses. “A, I’m pretty sure you need a reservation, and b, how the hell are we going to afford this?”

“I’ve got some money,” Bahorel says, craning his head to read the reservation book upside down. “And if worse comes to worse, we can always dine and dash.”

“Fantastic,” Joly says, throwing his hands up in the air. “I always wanted to get banned from a fancy restaurant.”

“We’ll be fine,” Bahorel says dismissively. “Leave the major conning to Cosette, and there won’t be a problem—aha! Ursule Lenoire, party of three.”

“ _Excellent_ ,” Cosette says, shaking herself out. “Let me get into character.” She takes a few seconds with her eyes closed to center herself, and then, as the maître d’ approaches, her eyes snap open and she’s a completely different person.

“May I help you?” the maître d’ says, not at all impressed by the three teenagers in front of him.

“Yes,” Cosette says, eyes proud and back ramrod straight. “I’m Ursule Lenoire, I have a reservation.”

He scoffs. “You’re Ursule Lenoire?”

“Yes,” Cosette says coolly, raising an eyebrow.

“The baguette queen of Paris?”

Cosette doesn’t even blink at this. “Exactly. Can we be seated, please?”

“If you’re Ursule Lenoire,” the maître d’ says, sneering, “then I’m the Prime Minister.”

“How _dare_ you?” Cosette says angrily, raising her voice. The other patrons in the restaurant start to look around, confused. “I have never in my life been treated like this!”

“I’m sure,” the man mutters.

Cosette slams her hands on the podium and stares the maître d’ straight in the eye. “My name is Ursule Alouette Lenoire,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “I’m the baguette queen of Paris, I started Madeline Bread Company five years ago, it’s risen to prominence incredibly quickly, and I could buy and sell this hotel in a heartbeat if I wanted to, but lucky for you, I don’t. All I want to do is eat my lunch, so either you seat us or I’ll be forced to cause a _problem_.”

She’s practically snarling by the end, and the poor maître d’ looks like he’s about to wet himself. “Right this way,” he mumbles, leading them to a table.  
“Thank you so much,” Cosette says, smiling sweetly.

“That was _beautiful_ ,” Bahorel says, in awe.

“And also _weirdly specific,_ ” Joly says, eyebrows raised. “How did you manage that?”

“My dad knows the real Ursule Lenoire,” Cosette says, studying the menu. “She’s actually a very nice woman and probably wouldn’t ever yell at a maître d’ like that.”

“So if she shows up, she might not get too mad at us for taking her reservation?” Joly asks hopefully.

Cosette grins. “She’d think it was hilarious. But she’s constantly late for things, so if we eat fast, we might not even have to deal with it.”

“I propose a toast,” Bahorel says, hoisting his glass in the air. “To the best day ever!”

“To the best day ever,” Joly parrots, grinning as he clinks his glass against Cosette’s and Bahorel’s.

*   *   *   *   *  

“Do you think I’m overreacting?” Eponine asks Combeferre at lunch. He pauses, apple halfway to his mouth, staring at her warily.

“Is there a right answer?” he asks. “Because either way this could go badly.”

“ _I_ don’t think I’m overreacting,” Eponine says, angrily taking a bite of her sandwich. “I mean, why should he get to do whatever he wants? Everything works out perfectly for him all the time, there’s never any consequences—you know what, screw it.”

She stands up, grabbing her tray. “Where are you going?” Combeferre asks.

“I’m going to go deal with this Bahorel thing.” She marches down the hall, striding into Mr. Javert’s office.

“Morning, Eponine,” Mrs. Thenardier says from behind her magazine. “What’s your problem today?”

“Is Mr. Javert here?” Eponine asks.

“Nope. Can I help you?”

“Seeing as you’ve never been helpful in your life, probably not,” Eponine snaps. “When will he be back?”

“Not a clue,” Mrs. Thenardier says, flipping through her magazine. “He’s out on ‘personal business’ or something.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eponine asks.

Mrs. Thenardier lets out a long sigh, putting her magazine down. “It means that it’s none of your business. Aren’t you supposed to be in a class soon?”

“Probably,” Eponine says, turning on her heel and walking out. As the door swings shut behind her, she swears she can hear Mrs. Thenardier say, “What a little shit.”

*   *   *   *   *  

“What is your dad doing here?” Cosette hisses from behind the bush that Bahorel has just unceremoniously dragged her and Joly into.

“I don’t know, business stuff?” Bahorel says frantically.

“There are like a million restaurants in Paris, and you pick the one your dad goes to?”

“Well I didn’t do it on purpose!”

“I’m like ninety percent sure I broke something,” Joly says, voice muffled.

“That’s a branch, honey,” Cosette says. “So what’s our plan?”

“I’m thinking run for it,” Bahorel says, and Cosette rolls her eyes.

“Of course you were. Come on, Joly, let’s go.” She grabs Joly by the back of his shirt and bolts, darting around the side of the building and flagging down a taxi. Bahorel dives in after her and the car’s screeching away before Bahorel’s dad so much as turns his head.

“Where to?” the cab driver asks.

“Somewhere your parents _aren’t_ ,” Cosette pants, and Bahorel smiles broadly.

“I’ve got just the place.”

*   *   *   *   *  

Javert has gone to every place he can think of that a delinquent would be. Malls, fast food restaurants, public parks—but no sign of Bahorel.

He thought he saw Bahorel once, in a bistro, but it had been both a false alarm and a girl. She had not been pleased with having her lunch interrupted, and he’d gotten a drink to the face for his trouble.

He almost wants to give up, but thinks of Mrs. Thenardier and how she would never let him live this down.

So he keeps searching. Bahorel’s out here somewhere, he just _knows_.

*   *   *   *   *  

“Come on!” Cosette roars, jumping on her chair in the stadium. “Let’s get some defense in here!”

Joly’s never been into football as much as some of his friends, but Cosette gets _incredibly intense_ about the sport. Enjolras actually instated a standing rule that Cosette’s not allowed to go to football matches with just Bahorel, because that only leads to tears and broken noses.

“That was a foul!” Cosette screams, turning to the boys angrily. “Did you see that? That was _completely_ unfair, oh my _god—_ ”

“See the kind of stuff you’d have missed out on if you’d stayed home?” Bahorel asks Joly. “Cosette is having a complete breakdown over sports and it’s the greatest.”

“Weirdly enough, I’m not comfortable with the fact that the only thing standing between the two of you and a fight over football is _me_ ,” Joly says.

“I think that’s a very comforting thought, actually,” Bahorel says, resting his arm on the back of Joly’s chair. “Who better to take care of us once we’re all beat up?”

Joly snorts. “You’re a human train wreck, you know that?”

“I actually prefer the term ‘human tornado’,” Bahorel says brightly, and Joly can’t even pretend to be grumpy anymore, not around Bahorel with his obstinate, stubborn cheerfulness.

“I suppose I should thank you,” he says, kicking his feet up onto the chair in front of him. “If you hadn’t called, I’d either be in bed or in gym right now.”

“That’s the spirit!” Bahorel exclaims, ruffling Joly’s hair. “I may have saved you from a lifetime of boredom.”

*   *   *   *   *  

Javert goes straight to Bahorel’s house. If he’s not there, then that’s proof that he’s skipping school, and if he is there, then he can confront the boy directly, get down to the bottom of this. He rings the bell and stands back, waiting.

“Who is it?” a voice from the intercom croaks.

“It’s Mr. Javert, Bahorel. I’d like to talk to you.”

“I’m sorry,” Bahorel says. “I’ve got a fever and my mom’s worried that if I try to move, I’ll fall and have to miss more school.”

Javert snorts. “Sure. Come on down.”

“You can call my mother if it’s an emergency. Thanks for stopping by! I appreciate your concern for my health.”

“The drama department missed out on a great performer,” Javert mutters.

“Have a nice day.”

“No—Bahorel, you get down here,” Javert growls into the intercom.

Silence.

Javert sighs, ringing the doorbell again. “Come on out, kid, it’s over.”

“Who is it?”

Javert groans, thunking his head against the door. “You know damn well who it is, Bahorel.”

“I’m sorry,” Bahorel says. “I’ve got a fever and my mom’s worried that if I try to move, I’ll fall and have to miss more school.”

Javert stops. That…isn’t right.

“You can call my mother if it’s an emergency,” Bahorel continues. “Thanks for stopping by! I appreciate your concern for my health.”

That little _shit_.

“Have a nice day.”

So he decides to peek in the windows, see if the boy’s there. He can almost _hear_ Mrs. Thenardier rolling her eyes at him and calling him an idiot, but Bahorel’s a rule-breaker and needs to be caught.

He goes around the back, tries to stand on the faucet and peek in the window, but this only results in a spray from the hose and feet full of mud.

Mrs. Thenardier is never going to let him forget this.

He’s sitting on the back porch when he notices the large dog door. He taps it hesitantly, and it swings open slightly.

It’s big enough to accommodate him, he notices.

He is _not_ telling Mrs. Thenardier about this part.

He sticks his head through the door, looking around what appears to be the kitchen. It’s empty, and there’s no signs of life—at least, not until the dog shows up.

In hindsight, he really should have expected this. Where there is an enormous dog door, there must also be an enormous dog.

It is decidedly not friendly, and jumps towards him, snarling and barking. So Javert bolts, because while he may be a little _determined_ when it comes to catching Bahorel and his ilk, he’s not an idiot.

So he’ll retreat for the time being. He’ll regroup, recalculate, and possibly come back with dog treats.

*   *   *   *   *  

“The Louvre?” Cosette says disdainfully, wrinkling her nose. “Please. The Musée d’Orsay if anything—the Louvre has far too many tourists.”

“Come on,” Bahorel whines. “This is supposed to be the best day ever!”

“And it _will be_ , as long as we don’t go to the Louvre.”

“You can be a snob later,” Bahorel says, tugging on Cosette’s sweater. “We went up the Eiffel Tower, we went to a fancy restaurant—it’s like tourist bingo, and the Louvre is the free spot.”

“Yeah, Cosette,” Joly says, joining in the tugging on Cosette’s sleeves. “It’ll be fun!”

Cosette rolls her eyes, trying in vain to hide her grin. “Yeah, okay, to the Louvre.”

They buy their tickets and press in, weaving in and out of the herd of people. Cosette gets distracted by some marble sculpture very quickly, and Bahorel and Joly end up in front of a painting of some Romans.

“I don’t get art,” Joly says after a moment, tilting his head. “It’s pretty, I guess, but my mother’s always going on about deeper meanings. It’s a bunch of people fighting, what’s deep about that?”

“Let me educate you in the world of art, young Joly,” Bahorel says, grandiose, as he drapes an arm around Joly’s shoulders. “Some people have made the mistake of seeing this artist’s work as a load of rubbish about railway timetables, but clever people like me, who talk loudly in restaurants, see this as a deliberate ambiguity, a plea for understanding in a mechanized world. The points are frozen, the beast is dead. What is the difference? What, indeed, is the point? The point is frozen, the beast is late out of Paddington. The point is taken. If La Fontaine's elk would spurn Tom Jones—”

“Are you—you’re quoting Monty Python, you bastard,” Joly says, smirking as he shoves Bahorel a bit.

“But where is the ambiguity?” Bahorel cries out as he stumbles away, laughing. “It’s over there in a box!”

“Idiot,” Joly says, grinning.

“Did we lose Cosette?” Bahorel says, craning his neck to look over the people milling around. “We can’t _lose her,_ her dad will kill me—”

“She’s over there,” Joly says, pointing her out. “Giving a tour to nine-year-olds, looks like.”

Cosette is standing in the middle of a group of students, talking animatedly about a pale marble sculpture and waving her hands around excitedly. Bahorel and Joly sneak quietly up to the group and stand at the edges, listening to Cosette babble on about sculpting in the second century. The children, for their part, seemed enthralled.

“Then it was restored in the late 1800’s—excuse me for a minute,” she says, catching sight of Bahorel and Joly. She picks her way through the kids and hurries over to them. “I sort of ended up as their tour guide, their teacher’s sick and the sub’s not that good with art,” she says in a low voice. “I promised we’d take them around to the famous stuff, do you mind?”

“Course not,” Bahorel says. “Lead the way.”

They lead the class around the Louvre. Cosette takes the front, pointing out the art and reeling off interesting facts,  Bahorel walks in the middle, with a kid swinging from each arm, and Joly walks with the sub in the back. He thinks about making some sort of conversation, but she looks so harried and exhausted, and is continually trying to count the children, so he decides against it.

The crowd around the Mona Lisa is intense as usual, and Joly nearly gets elbowed in the face trying to lead a little girl to see the painting up close. So they gather out of the way of the throng and Bahorel takes the kids in on his shoulders, one at a time. The other kids cluster around “Miss Cosette,” peppering her with questions about the Mona Lisa, and about Da Vinci, and about a lot of other things Joly didn’t think nine-year-olds knew or cared about.

For the first time since Bahorel called him this morning, he _relaxes,_ really and truly relaxes. Time seems to stop, and he doesn’t worry about the car, or his father, or getting caught—he doesn’t worry about anything at all.

It’s nice, just sitting on a bench watching his friends do their thing. Cosette’s practically glowing, and Joly thinks that if she weren’t so set on going to art school, she’d make a great teacher. Bahorel's won over the class in a heartbeat, and is swinging the kids around like they’re weightless. The kids look so thrilled that none of the guards are intervening, even though they really should be.

Joly still isn’t sure what made Bahorel get up this morning and decide to go on an adventure, but at this particular moment, he’s glad that Bahorel dragged him along.

Cosette leads them around to the Venus de Milo next, then upstairs to a giant Delacroix that’s a particular favorite of Enjolras’s, and then they all tramp down to the Raphael paintings. A quick tour there, and before Joly knows it, Cosette’s depositing the tour group at the gift shop and shaking the sub’s hand.

“And you wanted to go to the Musée d’Orsay,” Bahorel says, sliding one arm around Cosette’s waist and the other around Joly’s shoulders. “Would we have gotten to enhance the lives of a bunch of little kids at the Musée d’Orsay?”

“I suppose not,” Cosette says, leaning into him. “You were right.”

Bahorel puffs up a little bit at this. “On with the show, then!” he says, stepping out to hail a cab.

He nearly gets run over, but recovers well, turning to wave his arms over his head at Cosette and Joly, reassuring them that he’s fine.

“I always kind of figured he’d wander into traffic someday,” Joly says dryly, startling a laugh out of Cosette.

“He’ll be fine,” she says, waving back.

“Yeah,” Joly mutters. “He always is.”

*   *   *   *   *  

“Why is there a parade?” Cosette asks, staring out the window of the cab, willing the traffic to move. “It’s not a holiday, is it?”

“I don’t think so,” Bahorel says.

“I know what it is,” Joly says, rolling his eyes. “It’s you. You woke up this morning, decided you wanted to have a good day, and the universe accommodated by providing you with parades.” He sighs, leaning back in his seat, and worry starts creeping back into his head. “Look, we really should get the car back.”

“Oh, come on,” Bahorel says, whining slightly. “We’ve got hours!”

“That car is worth more to my dad than anything else,” Joly says, shifting slightly.

Bahorel raises an eyebrow. “But it’s not worth more to _you_ than anything else, is it?”

“No,” Joly says. “But I value my not-grounded state more than a day out.”

“Really? Come on, we’ve seen loads of great stuff today! What have you seen, huh?”

Joly’s getting tired, and the beautiful, time-stopped state of the Louvre is long gone. “Nothing good,” he mutters, leaning against the window. Bahorel starts spluttering in indignation.

“Nothing good?” he repeats incredulously. “We’ve been up the Eiffel Tower, we’ve seen classic works of art, we’ve enriched the lives of others, and we ate really weird fancy foods!”

“I gotta say, I could do without ever having _sea urchin coral_ again,” Cosette says, pulling a face. “Who even thinks to eat stuff like— _get down!_ ”

She grabs their shirt collars and _yanks_ , knocking heads with Joly on the way down. “You know, I’m all for spontaneity,” Bahorel says, voice muffled, “but that usually entails something like random days off or staging an impromptu production of Romeo and Juliet in the cafeteria.”

“A performance which almost got you suspended, if I remember correctly,” Joly says, and Bahorel just smirks at him.

“Yeah, well,” he says, making himself comfortable on the floor of the cab, “I still think it was a work of genius and I’m unappreciated in my time.”

“Why are we on the floor, exactly?” Joly asks Cosette.

“Because your dad’s in the cab next to us,” Cosette replies calmly.

Bahorel sticks his head up to check, and then just as quickly ducks back down. “It’s like he’s stalking us, isn’t it?” He leans forward to talk to the cab driver. “Hi, can you just let us out here? Thanks.”

He pays the man while Joly opens the door and crawls out onto the street, followed by Cosette. “Thank god the traffic’s at a standstill, or this would be going _really badly_ ,” Cosette says, grabbing Joly’s hand as they dart to the sidewalk.

Bahorel follows them out the car, onto the street and then the sidewalk, and then just keeps running.

“Where are you going?” Joly shouts after him.

Bahorel doesn’t even look back. “Hang on one second!”

And he’s gone, disappeared into the crowd.

“That—that’s just great,” Joly snarls, running his fingers through his hair. “He’s just _left us here_.”

“He hasn’t just left us here,” Cosette says, alarmed. “I’m sure he’ll be right back.”

She grabs Joly’s hand again and drags him down the sidewalk after Bahorel. They reach the road where the parade is and start following it.

“You don’t even know which way he went,” Joly says. “You’re just guessing.”

“Of course I am,” Cosette says. “Better than just standing there.”

“He probably went back to school,” Joly says gloomily. Cosette squeezes his hand, smiling at him.

“He wouldn’t do that,” she says, voice soothing. “Not after he went to all this trouble to get out of it. Why don’t we just watch the parade for a while?”

Joly allows Cosette to pull him down on the curb and they watch the floats go by as they listen to the announcer.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer says, and Cosette’s head snaps up. “We’d like to play a little tune for you.”

Joly and Cosette glance at each other, eyes wide. “We’d like to dedicate this to a young man who doesn’t think he’s seen anything good today,” the announcer says, and Joly springs to his feet.

Bahorel’s on top of a float holding a microphone, and before Joly and Cosette can react, he’s started singing the fucking Discovery Channel song about how awesome the world is, complete with backup singers and instrumentals.

Joly can only stand there, gaping, while Cosette runs up to the float, yelling at Bahorel the whole way, and is promptly dragged off by a security officer.

Joly follows her, and they end up sitting on a bench overlooking the parade route, watching Bahorel get the crowd singing along to the chorus.

“That _idiot_ ,” Cosette sighs. “I mean, I get having a good day, but he’s not exactly being subtle, is he?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Cosette, but things just work out for him,” Joly says, leaning forward. “Every time, things just _click_ in a way that they don’t for mortals like you and me.”

Cosette rests her head on his shoulder, and he puts an arm around her. “They do, don’t they?”

“And he always knows what he’s doing, which I wouldn’t mind because _someone_ has to know, but it would be nice if _I_ could know what I was doing once in a while.”

“You know, he doesn’t _always_ have everything figured out,” Cosette says. “What are you doing after we graduate?”

The sudden topic shift catches him off guard, but he rolls with it. “Pre-med, then med school. You know that.”

“Then what?” Cosette asks.

Joly shrugs. “Working at a clinic, probably. Doctors Without Borders or something, anywhere I can help.”

“Well, there you go,” Cosette says. “You know what you’re doing more than Bahorel does.”

The music shifts and Bahorel starts another song, this time something from the Beatles. “What do you think he’s going to end up doing?” Joly asks.

Cosette snorts. “He’s going to be crashing parades for the rest of his life.”

Bahorel’s dancing around the float like a maniac, and the street’s starting to flood with people that have been swept up in his tornado, so Joly grabs Cosette’s hand and plunges into the crowd.

He makes Cosette laugh with some stupid, uncoordinated dance moves, she spins him around a few times, and it’s the most ridiculous thing they’ve ever done.

Well. It’s the most ridiculous thing they’ve ever done this week.

Bahorel sets pretty high standards for ‘the most ridiculous thing.’

*   *   *   *   *  

Javert manages to intercept a bouquet of flowers for Bahorel from the English department, and he makes a mental note to yell at the faculty about appropriate behavior towards students.

He can hear Mrs. Thenardier saying, “Flowers aren’t okay, but breaking into houses _is_?”

“Shut up,” he mutters. “This is important.”

He’s now talking to himself. Fabulous.

He uses the pot of flowers to knock out the dog, which he _does_ feel a little bad about, but finding Bahorel is more important.

While he’s around the side, he hears a car screech into their driveway and the door slam. So he goes and tries the door, and it’s unlocked.

He moves stealthily around the first floor until he hears a faint creak from around the corner.

He allows himself a smug smirk. He’s got Bahorel now.

*   *   *   *   *  

Eponine is a girl on a mission, and barely remembers to put the car in park before she gets out. She storms into the house, marches upstairs, and flings Bahorel’s bedroom door wide open. A mannequin is pulled up by a string that she can see is attached to the door.

“I _knew it_ ,” she snarls, heading to her own room. She pulls out her phone and dials her mom’s number.

“Hi, this is Eponine, can I speak to my mom?” she says when her mom’s secretary answers.

“She’s not here right now, she’s out showing houses,” the secretary says.

“Do you know where?”

“I don’t, sorry.”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?” Eponine asks, frustrated.

“No.”

“If you don’t know anything, what’s the point of having you around?” Eponine mutters as she hangs up.

Right then, she hears the front door quietly click shut and she grins.

 _There you are, Bahorel_.

She sneaks downstairs as quietly as she can. She hears Bahorel moving around just around the corner and jumps out, hoping to surprise him.

“There you are, asshole!” she says, but there he _isn’t_ , as it turns out. There is a weird, slightly beat-up, middle-aged man in her kitchen.

So she does the only sensible thing: screams, punches him in the face, and runs back upstairs to call the police.

They are less than helpful.

“No, this isn’t a fake phone call!” Eponine shouts into her cell phone, slightly hysterical. “There is a creepy man in my house and I am alone and technically defenseless!” She growls in frustration, running her fingers through her hair. “It’s nice that you hope my brother is feeling better, but—this is why people don’t trust the police!”

She hangs up and runs down the hall, grabbing one of her dad’s golf clubs. “If you’re still here,” she shouts down the stairs, “I just called the cops, and I’m armed, so you should clear out while you still can!”

She then settles down, golf club in hand, to wait for the police.

*   *   *   *   *  

So far today, Javert has had a drink thrown in his face, almost been eaten by a dog, and nearly been knocked unconscious by a tiny girl. He is no closer to finding Bahorel, and now his car is being towed.

Maybe he’ll retire, he thinks as he’s running down the street after the tow truck. Take up something less stressful than being a principal, like searching for bombs in people’s luggage.

*   *   *   *   *  

The car is in one piece, and free of any obvious scratches or dents, so Joly pronounces himself satisfied and settles in the backseat.

They’re driving around Paris with the top down, the sun shining, and the wind blowing through their hair. Cosette and Joly are having a spirited debate over the merits of Michael Bay movies when Bahorel glances at the mileage and freezes.

“Um, Joly?” he calls over his shoulder. “What did you say the mileage was on this thing?”

“126.3,” Joly recites. “Why?”

Bahorel grimaces, pointing out the odometer that’s currently sitting pretty at 301.7 miles.

“Oh,” Joly says, surprisingly calm. “I see.” He sits in the back of the car calmly for a moment and then lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

“I’m dead,” he says, starting to hyperventilate. “I am so dead, oh my god, just kill me now because _I am going to die_.”

Cosette starts shouting at him to breathe, which really only makes Joly hyperventilate more while babbling about just how dead he’s going to be. Bahorel makes a sharp U-turn and heads back towards the garage.

“Where are you going?” Joly shrieks. “Home is _that way_ , we have to get back and fix this—”

“We’re going to go back to that garage,” Bahorel says. “Those guys fucked up the car.”

“That is a _terrible idea_ ,” Joly shouts. “Come on, let’s just go home, we can deal with them later.”

“No,” Bahorel says, starting to get angry. “It’s not fair, we paid them to look out for the car, not take it on a joyride.” He maneuvers the car into a spot on the street and hops out. “Cosette, calm Joly down, will you? I’ll be right back.”

Cosette climbs into the back and pulls Joly into a hug. “It’ll be okay, hon. Bahorel will fix it.”

“Some things he can’t fix,” Joly says, voice muffled against Cosette’s shoulder.

Cosette sighs. “Just don’t think about it until he comes back, okay? We’ll deal with it then.”

They sit in the car for a while, Joly struggling to keep his breathing under control and Cosette stroking his hair. After a bit, Cosette starts frowning, shifting around restlessly.

“What’s taking him so long?” she says, getting out of the car. “If he got into a fight without me—”

“Let’s hope that’s not the case,” Joly says, scrambling out after her. “I really don’t want to deal with that on top of the mileage fiasco.”

But when they get inside the garage, they’re greeted with the sight of Bahorel trying to fight off about four parking attendants, including the one that had parked the car.

“Oh for _god’s sake_ ,” Cosette yells as she shoves her purse in Joly’s arms, runs across the space between her and the brawl and jumps on someone’s back, raining down blows on his head. “I can’t leave you alone for _five minutes_ —”

“I tried to be reasonable and just talk,” Bahorel says, dodging a punch, “but they got all _angry_ , this was not my fault—”

He cuts off when someone lands a punch squarely on his nose, and Cosette snarls and headbutts the man in the throat. “Come on,” she says, grabbing Bahorel. “We’re going, we’re outnumbered.”

“So?” Bahorel asks. “When has that ever been a problem?”

“Never,” Cosette says. “But we do have a mildly panicking Joly to deal with, now _let’s go!”_

They run back to the car, the garage attendants in hot pursuit, and speed off.

“What, exactly, was that supposed to accomplish?” Joly yells. “Now we’re no closer to dealing with the mileage and _you’re getting blood on the leather!”_

“Oh shit, sorry,” Bahorel says, grabbing a napkin from Cosette to stem the flow of his bloody nose. “It’s only a couple drops, we can fix that.”

“It’s not coming off,” Cosette says, dabbing at the stain with her sleeve. “I think we’re going to have to get creative here.”

“What does that even _mean?_ ” Joly asks, exasperated.

“I’ve got some sharpies at home,” Cosette says, inspecting the stain. “We can cover this right up.”

Joly starts to laugh hysterically. “That’s your plan? Slap some tan sharpie on it and call it a day?”

“No,” Cosette says, offended. “I wouldn’t use tan, the leather is tan. I’d probably use beige to compensate for the darkness of the blood."

“I think my dad’s going to notice a giant bloodstain that’s been scribbled on with sharpie!” Joly says, almost shrieking. He takes a deep breath, and then starts laughing again. “You know what, I—I’m so done.”

And he lays facedown in the backseat and stops moving.

“Joly?” Cosette asks, poking him in the shoulder. “Hey, Joly. You okay?”

Joly doesn’t answer.

“I think we need to pull over,” she says, alarmed. “Bahorel?”

“I’m on it,” he says, pulling down a side street into a residential neighborhood. “I’ve got just the thing.”

*   *   *   *   *  

They set a still-catatonic Joly up by the side of the pool and settle in the stranger’s hot tub. Cosette makes a show of cleaning out the hot tub, proving that it’s sanitary just in case Joly snaps out of it.

“I hope he’s going to be okay,” Cosette says, biting her lip as she stares at Joly on the edge of the pool.

“He’ll be fine, I promise,” Bahorel says. “We’ve had a good day, we can fix this and everything will be fine.”

“What will it take,” Joly says suddenly, making Cosette jump, “for you to admit that maybe everything’s not fine?”

“Well, everything’s not fine _now_ ,” Bahorel says, “but we’re going to make it fine.”

“Why did we even do this?” Joly snaps. “This always happens, you decide you want to do something _fun_ and screw the consequences, but there are always consequences to your dumb joyrides.”

“Today wasn’t just a dumb joyride,” Bahorel fires back.

“Oh, really?” Joly asks, throwing his hands into the air. “So today _wasn’t_ you just deciding to cut class and dragging me along because you needed transport?”

“You’re going to officially be a pre-med major in six months,” Bahorel says abruptly. “Cosette, Feuilly, and Grantaire have all gotten into separate art schools. Combeferre’s going to probably triple-major and minor, Enjolras is signed up for a study abroad program, everyone else is all going to school with a very definite idea of what they’re doing and nobody’s going to the same place.” He sighs, leaning back against the edge of the hot tub. “I just wanted to have a day where we could be together.”

He falls silent, and Joly doesn’t quite know what to say. “What are you going to do next year?”

“Community college,” Bahorel grunts. “Pre-law. I couldn’t think of what else.”

“You’ll like college, I think,” Joly says, sticking his feet in the hot tub. “Nobody cares if you skip class.”

Bahorel snorts. “I _am_ sorry about the car. We’ll fix it, I promise.”

Joly smiles. “I know.”

*   *   *   *   *  

In Eponine’s opinion, the police are a bunch of worthless douchecanoes who aren’t capable of being helpful in any capacity. She should have just followed her first instinct and gone to town on the intruder with one of her dad’s golf clubs—maybe that way, she wouldn’t be stuck in a police station waiting for her mom to come get her while a bizarrely well-dressed pretty boy stares at her.

“Can I help you?” she snaps, crossing her arms defensively.

“You in here for drugs?” he asks.

“No,” she snarls. “Do I look like I’m in here for drugs?”

He looks at her appraisingly. “Yeah.”

“What are you here for?” she asks, trying to deflect his attention.

He smiles, showing all his teeth in a way that is decidedly not-happy. “Stabbed someone.”

Eponine looks around nervously, wondering if the boy should just be sitting here. “So why _are_ you here?” he asks.

“If you really want to know, my brother’s a total asshole.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Did you stab him or something?”

“No, and your stabbing thing is really creepy,” she tells him. “I just went home to confirm that he was skipping school, found an intruder in my house, and the cops picked me up because they thought I was prank calling them.”

“The cops are full of shit,” he says disdainfully. “But why do you care if your brother skips school?”

“Because he just does whatever he wants with no consequences and it’s not _fair_ ,” Eponine says.

“You could skip school if you wanted,” the boy says, and Eponine rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, but I’d get _caught_. He never gets caught, he’s pretty much magic.”

“So your problem isn’t your brother,” the boy concludes. “It’s that you’re not good enough at not getting caught.”

Eponine growls, slumping down in her chair and trying her best to ignore the boy.

She is never calling the cops again for anything.

*   *   *   *   *  

“This isn’t working,” Joly says, hovering over the car. “I don’t think going in reverse actually works on mileage.”

Bahorel’s got the car back in Joly’s garage, back wheels propped up and a brick on the gas pedal. “Huh,” he says, leaning over Joly’s shoulder. “So it’s not. Okay, we’ll just have to crack the dash and roll the odometer back by hand. We can do that, no big deal.”

 He grabs a toolbox and seems set to go to work on it when Joly’s hand darts out and grabs Bahorel’s wrist. “Don’t.”

“I’m good at taking things apart and putting them back together, dude,” Bahorel says. “It’s fine, it won’t even take me that long.”

“No,” Joly says. “Just leave it.”

“You’ve been freaking out about this car all day and now you’re just giving up?” Cosette asks.

“That’s exactly the problem,” Joly says, staring at the car. “I’ve been freaking out about it all day. I could have been more focused on the museum, or the Eiffel Tower, or anything else but I was always worried about this fucking car.” He circles it for a moment, calm and contemplative, and then slowly and deliberately kicks out the headlight.

“You know my dad would be more upset about that than he would if someone kicked _my_ eye out?” Joly says. “Like, how fucked up is that?” He kicks the car again, leaving a sizeable dent. “It says something about the kind of person my dad is when I can’t even properly enjoy myself on a nice day out.” He kicks the car again and again, denting and warping the hood. Finally, he stops, stepping back and regarding his handiwork.

“This is good,” he says after a few moments of silence. “It’ll show him that he can’t control everything about me. What’s he gonna do, ground me? I’m going off to college soon. It’s already paid for, non-refundable. He can’t touch me.”

He kicks the car one last time, but the second his foot makes contact, the car flies off the stand and tears through the picture window behind it, hurtling through the air and landing with a sickening crunch below.

Cosette races to the window, Bahorel hot on her heels. Joly stands where he is, frozen.

“What’d I do?” he croaks, voice quiet.

Cosette just stands there, hands clapped over her mouth, but Bahorel turns around and answers, just as quietly, “You killed the car.”

“Oh,” Joly says, eyes wide. “That—that’s unfortunate.”

“Look, I’ll take the fall for this one,” Bahorel says. “Your dad already thinks I’m a complete delinquent as it is, he’ll believe me if I say I did it.”

“No need,” Joly says, walking over to the window to stare at the car. “I was already in trouble for the mileage and the dents. What’s one more thing to be in trouble for?”

“You can’t take this much heat, man,” Bahorel says. “You’re a novice at getting in trouble. We have to start you off slow, with not turning in homework or something like that.”

“I can take it,” Joly says quietly, folding his arms. “The amount of trouble I’m getting in isn’t changing at this point. Besides,” he smirks, “if you take the blame then everyone will know you weren’t really sick and the whole day is wasted.”

“Are you sure?” Bahorel asks.

“Damn sure,” Joly nods. “Now get out of here, you have to get home by six.”

Bahorel grins and envelopes Joly in a bone-crushing hug. Cosette kisses his cheek and they’re gone, darting out of the garage towards home.

*   *   *   *   *  

Eponine’s having a great time making out with the boy at the police station when her mom shows up.

“You’re in a lot of trouble, young lady!”

Eponine starts, pulling away from the boy. “Hi, Mom.”

“Don’t ‘hi’ me,” her mom says, eyes narrowed. “Come on, let’s go.”

She turns and walks out the station to the car. Eponine turns back to the boy, rolling her eyes.

“There’s my ride,” she says. “Or—I guess I’m her ride, I just know she’s going to make me drive.”

“I never caught your name,” the boy says.

“Oh—it’s Eponine,” she says. “What’s yours?”

“Montparnasse,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. “You ever want to learn how to _not_ get caught at things, you give me a call.” He hands her a business card, and she raises an eyebrow, smirking at him.

“You have a business card?”

“Of course I do,” he says smoothly. “I’m a gentleman, after all.”

“Just a gentleman that stabs people,” she says. “No big deal.”

“Eponine!” her mom shouts from the door. “ _Now!_ ”

Eponine runs to the car, turning around at the door to wave at Montparnasse.

*   *   *   *   *  

“I had a great time today,” Cosette says, standing on the first porch step in her backyard to look Bahorel in the eye.

“It was fun,” Bahorel says with a grin. “Thanks for helping me with those assholes at the garage.”

“Yeah, well,” Cosette says airily, “we can’t let you have _all_ the fun, can we?” She pauses, thinking. “Is Joly going to be okay?”

“More than okay,” Bahorel says. “He’s going to be great.”

Cosette smiles and pulls him in for a kiss, soft and sweet. When she draws back, he checks her watch and says, “ _Shit._ I have to go.”

“I should say you do,” Mr. Valjean says from the doorway, and they jump apart.

“Hey, Daddy,” Cosette says sheepishly.

Bahorel smiles awkwardly. “Hi, Mr. Valjean. How’s it going?”

“Very well, thank you,” Valjean says dryly. “You had to be somewhere?”

“Right.” Bahorel takes off, running down the garden path and jumping over the fence. “I’ll call you tonight. I love you!”

“Love you too!” Cosette calls after him. She stands there and watches him go, smiling. “He’s going to marry me.”

“That’ll make for interesting family dinners,” her dad says.

*   *   *   *   *  

Eponine was right—her mom had demanded that Eponine drive her home. Apparently, this was so that her mom could sort through some paperwork, but was in reality an excuse to yell at Eponine free from distractions.

Eponine had stopped listening a few seconds in—it was the same bullshit about _responsibility_ and _maturity_ that her mom trotted out at every argument, with a healthy dose of comparisons to Bahorel that she’d learned how to ignore.

She’s passing Cosette’s house when someone darts in front of the car and she slams on the brakes.

It’s Bahorel, standing at the hood of the car and gaping at her.

Their mom isn’t paying attention, is too worried about her precious paperwork flying everywhere, but that doesn’t matter.

She narrows her eyes at Bahorel, and he narrows his right back. They don’t need to say a word to know what’s going on here.

_You’re not getting away with this._

_You can’t catch me._

Bahorel bolts and Eponine floors it. Her mom starts shrieking, yelling at her to slow down, but Eponine ignores her.

She blows through a stoplight, and a cop car switches on its siren and follows.

“Eponine, pull over!” her mom shrieks. “Do you not see the policeman behind you?”

“You know what, Mom?” Eponine says with feeling. “ _Fuck the police.”_

She’s fully prepared to outrun the cop car, but her mom yanks the steering wheel to the side and she’s forced to brake so she doesn’t hit the curb.

*   *   *   *   *  

Bahorel dashes through backyards, people’s homes, and a little girl’s birthday party to get home before Eponine does. He runs up to the side door right as he hears the car screech in the driveway, and tries to yank it open. It’s locked, so he goes for the spare key under the mat.

The key is gone.

He pauses, mind racing, as he tries to figure out what could have happened. Did Eponine take it? No, she’s only just gotten home.

He flips the mat up again, willing the key to be there, and then a muddy, torn up shoe slams down in front of him.

“Looking for this?”

Bahorel stands slowly to face a very battered-looking Principal Javert.

 _Shit_.

*   *   *   *   *  

Eponine’s probably going to be grounded till she’s thirty, but it’s going to be totally worth it. Bahorel isn’t in his room, so she runs down and waits at the side door.

She wants to see his face when he realizes how screwed he is.

She sees a wallet on the kitchen floor, and realizes that it must have come from the intruder. _This day just keeps getting better_ , she thinks as she picks it up. With actual evidence, there’s no way her mom won’t believe her about the break-in.

She flips it open to find that it belongs to— _Mr. Javert?_

She frowns, and hearing voices outside talking about another year of high school, starts to realize what’s going on.

Mr. Javert’s never liked Bahorel. He must have suspected that Bahorel was ditching, and come here to find proof.

She doesn’t want Bahorel to get away with skipping.

But she wants him to stay in school for another year even less, and she wants Mr. Javert to win at something least of all.

She growls, thunking her head on the doorframe. “God _damnit_.” She plasters on a fake smile and flings the door open.

“Bahorel!” she says, throwing her arms around him. “We’ve been worried sick about you! Get in bed this instant.” Bahorel goes with it, squeezing her hand in thanks on the way in.

Eponine turns to Mr. Javert, who rather looks like a little kid who’s been told that Christmas has been cancelled. “Can you believe someone as sick as Bahorel trying to walk home from the hospital? He ‘didn’t want to be a burden.’ Ridiculous!” She smirks at him, and holds up his wallet. “By the way, you left this in the kitchen.” She drops it at his feet and slams the door.

Bahorel owes her _big._

*   *   *   *   *  

It’s all over.

Javert has wasted an entire day chasing this little creep, and the whole thing’s been ruined by a little girl with a wallet.

Unbelievable.

He retrieves his wallet and begins the long walk home. He’s three blocks out when a car on the road honks at him.

“Hey!” Mrs. Thenardier calls out, rolling down the window. “You look like shit!”

He ignores her and keeps walking.

“I take it you didn’t catch him?” Mrs. Thenardier asks. “I mean, not like it was ever likely in the first place—”

“No, Mrs. Thenardier,” Javert interrupts. “I didn’t catch him.”

“You need a ride?”

Javert seriously considers saying no, but gets in the car.

“Wow, you really _do_ look terrible,” Mrs. Thenardier says with mild concern as he buckles in. “What happened?”

“Nope,” he says, settling back. “You’re going to mock me for the rest of my life, and I’d like to forget today ever happened.”

She snorts, pulling away from the curb. “No need to explain. My imagination’s good enough here.”

“I was afraid of that.”

*   *   *   *   *  

Bahorel races upstairs, takes off his jacket and shoes, and dives under the covers a split second before his mom opens the door.

His parents are clueless as usual, clucking over him like you would a five-year-old. Eponine’s standing at the doorway again, glaring at him, but doesn’t sell him out. He’s going to owe her a very big favor later, but for right now, it looks like he’s home free. When they leave, he stretches out on his bed, considering the day’s events.

He thinks of Joly growing a backbone, of Cosette diving headfirst into the fight with the parking garage attendants, of Joly’s constant well-meaning sarcasm and how beautiful Cosette had looked with the class at the Louvre and thinks: _Yep._

_Definitely the best day ever._


End file.
